


All It Takes Is Faith

by mickeym



Category: Popslash
Genre: Europe-era, First Time, Kissing, M/M, Pining, Unresolved Sexual Tension
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2003-02-13
Updated: 2003-02-13
Packaged: 2017-10-09 02:38:05
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: Underage
Chapters: 1
Words: 5,537
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/82135
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/mickeym/pseuds/mickeym
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>JC needs to have faith.</p>
            </blockquote>





	All It Takes Is Faith

**Author's Note:**

> _for Gale, for her birthday._

Sometimes, you have to pinch yourself to make sure you're not dreaming. It's hard to remember there was a time before now when you didn't spend six, twelve, fifteen hours a day in a sweltering warehouse, dancing until your legs felt like noodles. When you didn't sing so much your voice wasn't good for any kind of speaking for hours, afterward.  When you weren't so tired you felt like crying all the damn time, though you wouldn't, won't, _don't_ cry, because what would be the point? This is what you – all of you – want.

Chris keeps saying it'll come together. That you have to trust him. Trust yourself.  Trust all of you. It's what you're all working for and the only ones who can pull it off are you. _Have faith, C. Have faith in yourself._

But in the back of your mind is the way you walked around the MMC studio, always feeling like you never quite belonged, that someone would figure out sooner or later you really weren't supposed to be there. No one ever came to you and said 'Hey, Chasez, you shouldn't be here, get the hell out', but you expected it daily the first year you were there, nonetheless.

And then there's Justin. You watch him now, long, and slender, gangly in the way that promises he'll be taller than any of you, with smooth golden skin that makes you ache to touch it, sometimes, and you remember when he was the new kid. Never quite as shy as you were, your first year on the set, but he had his moments. He was pretty new to stardom then. He still is, actually, new in the way that he's young, that there's much to learn and discover. You hope he doesn't grow old and jaded before he has a chance to grow up. You make a mental note to try and ensure it doesn't happen.

"It's working, isn't it?" Chris drops to the floor beside you and offers you his bottle of water, and once you're over the startled feeling you always get from him – he always seems to just _appear_, out of nowhere – you nod and take the water, take a long drink. You've been thirsty for forever, too. Tired, hungry, thirsty, aching. What a way to go through life. "I told you it would, dude."

"I know." Maybe you're just naturally more cautious? You shrug and take another gulp of water, nearly choking on it when Justin does…something…with his hips. You catch it out of the corner of your eye and turn to see it again, and—it takes your breath away. He's fifteen fucking years old. _When did he get so sexy?_ Your brain races to move on, to change the subject before you can do something stupid, and you blurt out awkwardly, "I—has Lou said anything?"

Chris pounds you on the back, then eyes you oddly and you hold your breath, sure he's going to see what – _who_ – you're looking at. You're really not sure how he, or anyone else, hasn't noticed, since it seems like you look at Justin all the time, any more. You can't not, though you try. Somewhere between last August and Christmas, he—blossomed. And in spite of the fact that you've had all kinds of friends who dated girls younger than them, you're hot on the two main differences: Justin's not a girl, and it would be all kinds of wrong to approach him because he's a friend, and looks up to you.

"Has he said anything about—what?" When you shrug helplessly, because really, your brain just tossed that out, Chris gives you another look then looks back over at Justin and Lance, mirroring each other. In spite of the fact that Lance really is getting it, you all take turns working a little extra with him. "He's pretty hot, isn't he?"

Your cheeks heat up and you hope, really really hope, that Chris is talking about Lance. Though how it's more okay to think a sixteen year old is hot than a fifteen year old, you're not sure. "Um—"

"Dude." Chris takes another drink of water and passes you the bottle again. You wish it had something stronger in it. At least something with caffeine. "I see you watching him. It's cool, y'know, to look. He's sexy."

"He's fifteen." You wish you could pretend you didn't know who Chris was talking about, but—it's Chris. He may give the impression he's so hyper he can't pay attention, but you know for a fact those sharp eyes don't miss a thing. "And I'm almost twenty. And I have no clue if he even likes guys. And just—no."

Chris snorts. "Yeah, you're almost twenty in another six months. C. Dude." He shakes his head and you dare a look at him; yeah, sure enough, he's watching you. "I'm not…advocating—" and when Chris uses the big words you can remember he's the only one of you who's been to college, the only _other_ one of you who realizes there's a big, wide world out there waiting to gobble up innocent young boys. "I dunno, man. But have you, y'know, talked to him?"

"And say what? God, Chris." Your belly flips over in spite of itself. You'd like nothing better; it's not like you're shy about asking someone out, male, female, it doesn't matter. But you can't shake the feeling that approaching Justin would be wrong, somehow. "He might—I don't want to pressure him. And he, I mean, the group, and if it, if it doesn't work, and we can't—"

"Wow." Chris slaps his hand over your mouth and your face heats up again. You wish miserably that Lou hadn't insisted you cut your hair, because you feel like there's so much more of your face exposed now. "Babble much, C?" You consider biting his fingers, and sigh instead when he pulls his hand away. "Again: not advocating anything here. But I'm thinking you should—do something. Get it out of your system. And yeah, you're not gonna be pressuring him, no matter what you do. It's not like you're some fat old fuck luring innocent boys in." You share a look with Chris at that statement and try to ignore the shivers tripping down your spine.

"He's…young."

"I'm not saying you should toss him down on the nearest flat surface and fuck him senseless. Just—consider options and possibilities." Chris looks out at the two boys and shakes his head. "And you're not exactly ancient, y'know.  Justin's older than his age, too, C. Older than his years." You turn and look at Chris' profile; he's watching Justin and Lance again, and there's—something. A note of wistfulness in his voice. You decide to take a chance. Chris is turning out to be a great friend – you feel closer to him, some days, than any of the others – but he keeps so much of himself so close, it's hard to get a feel for him at times.

"Why's it okay for me, and not for you? You could—"

He turns sharply, eyes dark and hot, prickly, if that's a word you can use for eyes. His voice cuts, a low, pained hiss. "Because there's a hell of lot more difference between sixteen and twenty-four than there is between fifteen and nineteen."

You want to point out that if it's only six months 'til your birthday, it's only three until Lance is seventeen. But you're pretty sure now isn't the time, especially when, as Chris pointed out, Justin at fifteen sometimes seems older than Lance, at almost-seventeen. You nod silently, and turn back to watch Justin, ignoring the way his sweat-streaked skin hit by odd rays of sun seems to make him glow.

~~~~~

You hit Germany and everything -- all the rules, all your constants -- changes on you.

They're subtle shifts at first, that leave you blinking in confusion, and wondering if you imagined things in your tired, hyped-up-on-screams-and-chants-and-performing brain. You – all of you – seem to run on two speeds, these days: hyperdrive, for all of your appearances, and dead, for the short amount of down time in between. But once in a while, there's a hand on your back that lingers, for a moment. Or, a lapful of warm boy, snuggling down to sleep against you. A teasing lilt to the banter all of you toss around that wasn't there before.

You're aware of other things, too, peripherally. Justin's grown a lot in the last few months; he's taller than he used to be. Taller than Chris now, nearly as tall as you. His voice, though it changed while you were still on MMC, has a different timbre to it than it had before. You watch him, see the way his eyes follow the girls, and sometimes, when you look away then back, in that split second, boys, too. Men.

He watches anything that moves, anything that shakes hips or ass in his direction.

The 'anything', you learn, includes you.

It's pure happenstance that you figure it out, because you've spent the last eight months trying to ignore Justin, to ignore the attraction you feel for him, by looking in the opposite direction or looking past him, or just not looking, period. You and Chris have a brief…thing, both of you trying to forget pretty boys who really are too young for anything but admiring from a distance, but it's more buddy-fucking than anything; you love Chris as a friend, as someone you know will always have your back, but he's not…Justin, any more than you're Lance. The thing doesn't last long, just a couple months, off and on again, and then it's back to watching Justin, your eyes taking in the changes, your brain assimilating them slowly, at odd moments.

But one day, purely by accident, you turn back in response to something Joey calls out to you, and Justin's eyes are fixed on you, hungry and dark. Staring at you. The way you watch him. You blink, and the moment is gone, he's turned away to look at something, talk to someone, do something that doesn't include looking at you. But you saw him. You see him. And every inch of your skin feels tight, hot, tingly. Like you touched an electrical outlet or an exposed wire.

You spend the night jerking off, grateful for the single room, which allows you the privacy to lay back and touch yourself slowly, over and over. You imagine a smooth, sleek body pressed against yours, big hands touching you slowly, learning your body. Imagine a long, lean body spread out for you to taste and touch.

You meet Justin's eyes in the morning, your body still tingling but strangely unfulfilled. He smiles at you, a brilliant, wide grin that makes you instantly hard, flustered, and not a little suspicious. When you sit down for breakfast, he grins wider and plops beside you, then whispers,

"I dreamed about you last night."

You ignore your hand shaking when you reach for your orange juice, and try to pretend you can't feel the heat of his body radiating out against yours, through t-shirts and track pants.

You definitely pretend you don't see Chris watching you, a gleam of amusement and – pity? – shining in his eyes.

~~~~~

"So he's decided he's tired of waiting for you to come around, and he's taking matters into his own hands, huh?" Chris plops down beside you in the van and you scowl. Couldn't he go bother Joey? Or Lance? Or Justin, for that matter?

"Don't you have some place you need to be?" Which is about as stupid as questions come, since the van's rumbling beneath your feet, floorboards rattling and shaking in protest. "Or someone else you could bother?"

"Nope." He's obviously settling in for the duration, so you sigh and shift, making more room for him. "Is he driving you crazy yet?"

"Yes." You hiss the word, staring at the back of Justin's head. "Every time I turn around, he's there. Touching me. Draping over me. Snuggling against me." Beside you, Chris pats your arm. You roll your eyes. "I'm going insane, slowly. By pieces."

"Death by Timberlake?" Chris wrinkles his nose. "Sounds like an exotic dessert."

You smack his arm. "Or a punishment straight from hell. And anyway, it's 'Death by Truffle'. Or chocolate. Or something."

"Yeah, whatever. My point, Chasez, is the longer you hold out, the worse it's gonna get. Just give in, kiss the kid already. Or, y'know. Whatever. You know you want to."

"And you're totally overlooking that whole he's fifteen, I'm twenty, thing."

"Same tired song and dance."

"Same valid points."

Chris stretches his arm out along the seat and shifts so he's facing you, more-or-less. "Dude. Didn't we have this conversation like, a decade ago?"

"It was nine months ago." And you hate that you fell into _that_ trap, but instead of laughing at you, when you look, Chris' eyes are dark with sympathy. "I hate you, you know."

"Nah, I know better."  Chris noogies your head until your scalp stings, then pulls you closer so you're resting against his shoulder. "You hate me telling you what you don't want to hear, but need to hear. It's only gonna get worse if you try to ignore it, C. Don't tell me you don't think about him all the time."

You could ask him the same about Lance, but that subject is so far into the realm of taboo, you don't dare. The age difference between Chris and Lance freaks Chris out beyond rational thought and he's refused to consider anything more than snuggling with Lance until the magical eighteen happens. Of course, you're so strung out now, yourself, you can't even enjoy the cuddles anymore. "I want him," you hear yourself say, miserably. "But—for what? I can't. It wouldn't work like, we did it," and you sigh when Chris strokes your hair. "I don't want to be his fuck buddy."

"No." You feel the word, whispered, feel Chris' fingers easing some of the tension in your neck muscles. "Nah, you – both of you – need more than that."

"He's—" You roll your eyes at yourself. "I need to go for it, don't I?"

Chris snorts. "Dude, how the hell did you ever get laid in the past?"

"Hey—I got laid." And oops, maybe a little _too_ loud there, because Justin turns and squints at you, then grins, and suddenly he's not the kid you've known for years and watched grow up on the MMC studio, he's—this sexy, amazing guy you'd like to know better. And you're not going to listen to the voice still whispering he's too young, you're too old, any of it.

"Couldn't prove it by me, C."

You laugh softly and close your eyes again. "Dude, you know better than most of 'em." Your voice is softer than a whisper, now. "I want more than just getting laid, Chris." The implications of just saying that make your stomach knot up and Chris strokes your hair again.

You fall asleep to him saying softly, "then go get 'im, tiger."

~~~~~

It's just not that easy, though. You want to do it; you haven't wanted anything _but_ that for almost a year. But you've waited because it didn't feel right, and it still doesn't, exactly…your brain has trouble getting you past the 'doing something wrong' talk.

The guys – well, Chris and Joey – make plans to go out after your last performance for the day, but you're too tired. Too tired, keyed up, tense. You wonder how it's possible to be worn out and wired up at the same time, and figure once the endorphins in your system fade you'll fall asleep wherever you happen to be sitting, and you'd really rather that not be in a club somewhere. An hour or two of badly dubbed TV, a gallon or three of water, a shower…and hopefully no thoughts of what you told Chris you'd do.

A loud rap on the door startles you awake, and you sigh when you realize you dozed off, just sitting there; it really takes talent to fall asleep sitting on the end of a bed – which confirms you're too tired to be out dancing and drinking, especially considering wake-up tomorrow is five a.m.. Whoever is out in the hall bangs on the door again and you yell, "go away, Chris—I said I didn't want to go out."

They knock again and you snarl; you love Chris and Joey, you love going out. But not tonight. You're so not in the mood. You yank the door open and Justin nearly hits you in the face, his hand raised to knock again falling away at the last minute.

"Oh!" He's clearly surprised, and it takes a minute for him to regroup. "Um. Can I—talk to you for a minute?"

You nod and back away into the room; when Justin comes in, he pushes the door closed and leans against it, studying you. It's kind of unnerving. "What, J?"

"You've been avoiding me." He purses his lips and you have to look away, because really, all you want to do is lean over and kiss him, and he's just so close but still so far out of reach, truly—"JC."

"Hmm?"

"Dude." He shakes his head and pushes past you into the small room. There's not much in it; a small bed, table and two chairs, a dresser and a nightstand. Pretty much the same as the rest of the rooms, but for the fact it only has one bed. And honestly, have the Germans never heard of double beds? You wonder how Joey manages to actually have sex in one of these beds. Though you and Chris—

\-- and that train of thought is derailed when Justin pokes your shoulder. "Stop spacing out on me, man. I need to ask you a serious question."

"Right." You sit on the side of the bed and wave Justin into one of the chairs. "Sorry. I'm just. Tired. Foggy." He stares at you for a minute, face scrunched up, tension bleeding into every line of his body. God, you hope he's not going to ask you for advice on sex or something; in spite of the fact that he's draped himself over you at every opportunity for the last month, he also hasn't given off any _other_ vibes, and you honestly don't think you could stand to have to talk him through sex with someone else. "Okay…so. What'd you want to talk about?"

"Yeah. Um." He fidgets and it's surprising, to see him like this. Justin exudes the self-confidence of someone who's never been told no, who has never failed at anything he set out to do, who has never tasted defeat. You wonder how much of that confidence he was born with, and how much of it is a result of just having things work out, always. And watching him shift, tense and uncertain, kind of helps make you forget the other feelings you've been pushing down; before anything else, you're his friend. You reach out and tap his knee.

"C'mon, man. Spit it out. Whatever it is, it's nothing we can't deal with, right?"

He gives you a half-smile. "Guess so." He chews on his bottom lip briefly, then sighs. "Are you mad at me?"

"Mad? What?" You blink, totally not expecting that one. "What makes you think I'm mad at you?"

"'Cos you've been all—avoiding me, lately. Not smiling. Not talking to me. You're always—you haven't wanted to do anything, and I just wondered. I was just, y'know. You're." He blushed when he started talking; now he's a deep, bright red, and you stare, fascinated and surprised.

"I'm what?"

"I kinda. Um. Want to—y'know." He makes a vague hand-gesture you're sure is supposed to mean something, but for the life of you, you're not sure what.

"No, I don't. What. What, Justin?"

He takes a deep breath and looks up, looks you right in the eye. "I want to kiss you, and I kinda think you want that, too—and maybe more—but you won't talk to me anymore, and you're always talking to Chris, and I've tried…I was. Flirting. Kinda. Trying, y'know. To get you. Um. Wanted you to see me. I know I'm. That you have this hang-up with the age thing, me an' Lance talked about it, and we figure that's why you don't want, um. To kiss me. And, yeah. Shutting up now."

You stare for a minute, brain trying to catch up with what your ears just heard. Except, you couldn't have heard right, could you? "Um—no. I mean. Don't shut up. I just. You want to kiss me?" Okay, so, that wasn't exactly what you meant to say. At all.

Justin flushes again, and you reach out to touch his cheek; it's hot and just a little damp beneath your fingertips and he swallows when you stroke lightly down his face. "JC—"

"Hmm?"

"I've wanted." He swallows again, and you get wrapped up in the way his Adam's apple bobs, just a little, and rub the pads of your fingers over that, too. His neck is warm. Warm boy. "Wanted to kiss you forever, man. Like, a couple years."

"Me too," you whisper, not sure then if you actually said the words out loud, or just said them – again – in your head. Justin's pulse beats strong against your fingers where they're resting against his throat.

"You do? Want to kiss me?" Justin's closer now; you're not sure which of you moved forward, maybe both of you. You nod, stroke his neck some more. Part of your brain keeps flashing _'this is wrong! Wrong!'_ but you're determined to ignore it, because – it can't really be wrong, can it? You care about him, he cares about you, and you're not going to take advantage of him. He's young, but he's not, and you're lonely. You're all lonely, a little bit, and far from home. And—god, his skin is warmer, smoother, than you'd imagined. "I thought. I thought you were mad at me. Or—didn't. Like me."

"Total opposite, J." Stroke your fingers back up his neck to his ear, the ear with the piercing, and you watch his eyes close when you tug gently. "I've kept my distance, 'cos I didn't want—to hurt you. Or. Pressure you."

"You're a nutjob, man. I've been. I—" He swallows again and you lean in further, close enough now that you can feel his breath against your lips, a light warm breeze. He smells like sports stick deodorant, and the non-smell of body wash, and something salty-sweet you imagine is just Justin. His eyes are so blue, this close up. "Please," he whispers, just a slight tremor in his voice. "C—"

"Shhh."  So beautiful. You wait until the very last moment to close your eyes, wait until your mouth brushes over his, that first taste that explodes through you in a volley of shivers. Another slow, gentle touch, your mouth to his, and you lick at his lips, taste lingering sweetness, probably from a soda. Justin whimpers, very softly, and lurches toward you, and you pull him close, closer, teasing his mouth open with gentle licks and brushes of your lips.

You tumble backward and he's hot, a little heavy, pressing you to the bed. He catches himself on his elbows and shifts like he's going to move, but no. No, no, no, not when you've waited and hoped and—no. His hair is soft, silky, the curls heavy weight curling around your fingers when you thread them through and pull him closer. When you kiss him this time his mouth opens with a soft moan and you lick inside, shuddering with pleasure. He licks back, tastes your tongue, your mouth, moans when you slick your tongue around the inside of his mouth. It's pure sweetness and sin, hearing the quiet noises he makes while you taste him, his body hard against yours, hips jerking forward in small, quick motions.

And oh, that feels good, his body moving against yours. It's been a while, too long just you and your hand, and nothing like warm pressure, and friction, and God, you want to devour him. You might say something to that effect, mutter the words against Justin's mouth, your fingers tangled in his hair. And he might wriggle harder against you, erection hot and throbbing behind the layers of clothing separating you. You let go of his hair with one hand, trail it down his back – long, lean back, and you can feel the muscles flexing there, under his t-shirt – and cup his ass with one hand. Sleek, smooth, and he rubs against you again, making quiet gasps against your mouth. You press up against him and groan low in your throat; it feels so fucking good.

You pull away from him with effort, slide your other hand down his back to hold him, press him tighter against you. Justin makes a happy sound, low in his throat, and it vibrates into you. You want to spread your legs – or his – and just. Rub, hump, fuck…something. Something, now. You kiss his neck shiver when he makes that sound again. "Justin—"

His eyes are glassy and unfocused when he looks at you, and a bolt of pure heat streaks through you.  "Huh?"

"We—" And then he squirms against you. Hard. And his erection rubs directly against yours, and he licks his lips, and just—fuck. "_God_." You kiss him again, gripping his hips and pressing. When he slides one leg between yours you see stars, then everything fades around you, lost in the haze of pleasure.

You focus on the sensations. Justin's body, hard and hot against yours. His skin, damp with sweat when you stroke up under his t-shirt, stray droplets gathering in the shallow dip at the small of his back. His mouth scorches where it touches yours, and when he drags away to kiss your neck and jaw, you shudder and arch, groaning when he bites gently, uncertainly. You whisper how good it feels and he bites again, rubbing harder, faster against you. His eyes close just before he comes, fingers clutching almost too tight on your shoulders, mouth pressed bruisingly hard to yours. You swallow his groan, feel the sudden surge of warmth against your crotch. It's enough to make you gasp, and when he rolls his hips again, pleasure sparks whitehot through you, rippling out in waves. You bite down on Justin's lower lip when you come, shuddering through each spasm, growling once when he bucks against you, half-hard again, already.

It's hard to breathe with Justin laying heavy and sleepy on you, so when you can move again, you push at him until he rolls, making a soft sound of discontentment. "Ceeee—"

"Dude, you're heavy. Just—move a little and we'll get comfortable."

He curls into you as soon as you've shifted up onto the pillow, and nuzzles, brushing damp kisses against your neck. "We—" Another kiss and a shiver. "We, um. Wow."

You smile against his hair and hug him closer. "Yeah. 'Wow' works here." He nuzzles again, and it feels—shivery. You rub his back soothingly. "You okay, J?"

"Mmm." But he's still shivery against you, in spite of the body heat the two of you are throwing. You stroke his back, firm, long strokes, feeling the bunch and shift of his back muscles.

"Justin?"

"Yeah. No. I mean, I am. I just." He sighs and relaxes a little against you, then tilts his head back to look at you. His eyes aren't so dark now, just blue, like you're used to seeing…and part of you thinks you should think of them in more flowing, poetic phrases.  The songwriter in you wants to use cool words like 'ocean' and 'cerulean', and the depths…and the rest of you wants to just hold Justin really close and listen to his heartbeat and his breathing, and maybe sleep with him in your arms. But he's still stumbling over his words, and you're not sure if that's good, or bad.

"Was it. Did you ever do anything before—me?"

"I." You think it's kind of cute, the way he chews on his bottom lip when he's nervous, or thinking, and then you realize that's something you do, too. You wonder which of you did it first? "Me an' Lance did, once. Kinda. Um. Not like this, exactly. Just. Um. Talked to each other. While we—y'know." He makes another one of those vague motions, and grins. "Y'know."

You kiss him again, a quick, messy kiss, mostly because you can, but also because you _do_ know. "Did you like that?"

"Not as much as what we just did." He makes a tentative sound in his throat, and kisses you, a slow, gentle kiss, more licking at your lips and teasing. "Can we do it again?"

"Now?" You stroke his face, his neck, down his chest. That gets you another grin that you kiss away; a long wet glide of tongue-against-tongue, mouths moving slickly against each other. You rock slowly into him, shudder when he thrusts to meet you.

He groans when you bite at his lips, then lick the sting away before moving to lick and nip at his neck. "Yes, now. Please?"

You laugh softly, but you remember fifteen. You walked around horny all.the.time.  "I've created a monster." But you kiss him again, and again, and lose track of hands and arms and legs. Twenty isn't so very different from fifteen, actually.

Justin's fully erect against you when you stop to breathe, and you're throbbing behind sticky jeans. "Can we do this without the clothes this time?" His voice is breathless, husky, and god, he's just…he looks debauched. Lips red and wet, swollen from too many kisses and bites, and oh, he's going to have to wear a high-necked sweater, because you gave him a hickey. Or three. And—so much skin. Pretty pale golden skin, retaining the softest hint of the sun, even in damp, cloudy Germany.

"Without clothes is good, yes. But, um." You swallow, because the part of you that's positive this is wrong is still chanting in your head. Just not as loudly as before. "You're, um. I'm. I don't want to take advantage of you, J." Which probably would've sounded better if you weren't stroking a hand over his chest, but—he's right here. And you've wanted to touch so badly for so long. He flashes you a grin and strips his shirt off.

"Dude. Which of us came to the other?"

"But—"

"C? Shut up." And he kisses you again, a quick learner, because he's nipping and licking and sucking, and good god, you're going to die. Or explode. Or possibly both.

You're very sure you're going to at least explode when your jeans are finally off and Justin's stroking a tentative hand down your chest, and over your thighs, fingers brushing lightly over your cock. You return the caresses, grinning when he mewls low in his throat and arches toward your touch. His nipples are sensitive, budding tightly when you rub over them; when you bend your head and lick at one Justin shudders and bucks upward.

"Pretty," you whisper, and lick again, teasing your tongue around and around, nipping at each nipple, then sucking, until he's writhing, fingers scrabbling at your chest, at the sheets, hips rolling against yours.

"JC—" He swallows and licks his lips, mutters, "please. Please—I'm. God, please. Never anything like this—"  He arches against you again, pleading with his body. You whisper into his mouth, kiss lips swollen and a little bruised, and slide against him, shuddering with the pleasure rising in you.

It's fast and frenzied this time, all sweat-slicked skin sliding against more sweat-slicked skin, and the tang of salt in your mouth when you kiss his shoulder, his neck, lick his collarbones. His fingers leave scratches on your back – you can feel them, a barely-there sting when the sweat drips over them – but you don't care. He's hot and sweet, and you're addicted. Instantly addicted. Can't get enough, don't want to stop. And when he comes the second time, grinding against you, fingers clenched in your hair as he groans into your mouth, you hear your name…feel it branded into your lips and your skin, as surely as if someone used a hot iron.

You curl together, afterward, sweaty and sticky, sleepy but content. The bed is too small for both of you, but you don't care; he's cuddled against your chest, and you can hear his breathing, soft and slow. It's soothing, comforting, and something tightens in your chest, clenches deep inside you. And when Justin shifts closer and whispers your name in a soft, sleepy voice, you don't try to pretend not to feel or hear or see.

Faith got you this far; it'll take you the rest of the way.

~fin~

 


End file.
